


Signifying Nothing

by The_Lionheart



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Phobias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night comes around and I'm still feeling bad,<br/>Rain pourin' down, blinding every hope I had...<br/>~<i>Stormy Weather</i>, Billie Holiday with Ella Fitzgerald</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signifying Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> first time doing any sort of a bingo challenge, this is from round 2 at ccbingo, Phobias! Contains prompts #4 and #32, Astrapophobia and Ombrophobia.

There will be a _meeting_ later. Not a debriefing. Nick Fury has been an _excellent_ employer for the past twenty-two years, but this is not about business. Nick has been someone Phil considers a friend for the better part of two decades now, and when Nick calls Phil in to discuss how tonight goes down, it will be because he genuinely _does_ care.

That does not make this better. It makes it unutterably _worse_.

“Call it, Coulson,” Clint's voice in his ear breaks through the sound of the rain, beating against the flimsy structure. _Other people are listening in, Coulson, make a decision before they notice your silence._ “Cause I'm startin' to root for the guy.”

Phil clenches his hands into fists until every knuckle aches, and tries to force air into his lungs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's in Phil Coulson's file- or, _one_ of them , anyway. Phil's seen it, tucked into the back, as if it was meaningless. Two words, a brief summary of what they mean, followed by a note, _Possibly related to childhood accident._

It is true, for a given amount of _truth_. In the _same_ way, it can be said that Howard Stark was a good father- his son, after all, is a genius, graduated from MIT, has built wonderful things and has lived a charmed life.

It's true, because the water presses itself against his skin with every drop that falls, seeps into his bones, drowning him the way the Allegheny River did when he was six, over his head and inside his nose and mouth and pulling him down and away from his father's boat.

It is a lie, because Phil can swim- quite _well_ , actually- and he goes whitewater rafting when he has time off, and he's not afraid of rivers, or of water. It is a lie, because he was an adult the first time he felt rain spatter against the back of his neck and knew it for a death sentence.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Phil knows it's coming. Sudden storm, out in the desert? Yeah, _no_ , there will be lightning, and there will be thunder. The waiting is almost worse than actually hearing it- Phil _knows_ about interrogation, Phil knows about _torture_ \- and the silence before the air splits with a sound like the world breaking is as bad as the empty space between a fist and naked skin.

The intruder makes it to the object- the hammer, _why not_ \- and his fingers curl around the handle and he pulls-

-and nothing. And nothing. And nothing, and then the man sinks to his knees amidst the sound of thunder, and Phil's heart explodes in his chest, his heartbeat shooting razorwire through his pulse points.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Clint comes in out of the rain and he's wet, dripping onto the ground, onto Phil's shoes. That's alright, though, it's _manageable_. Phil can breathe again, doesn't _mind_ that all he can suck in is the smell of wet leather and Clint's sweat.

“Are you alright?” Clint asks, and Phil shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth pressed against the place where Clint's vest meets the smooth line of his upper arm. Clint doesn't ask if Phil wants to talk about it, because he _knows_ the answer to that, just wraps his broad arms around him. Phil likes that. He likes most of Clint's traits, it's true, but the fact that he doesn't have to answer, or _not answer_ , certain questions is right up there with Clint's morning-after smile and the way Clint knows how Phil likes his coffee without having once ever _asked_ him.

“We have to get back to work,” Phil breathes out, finally, and Clint lets him step back. Phil's jacket and pants are damp, now, but he has a spare jacket and frankly, nobody would notice if he was slightly wet. It is raining out, after all.

“See you later,” Clint says softly, and Phil nods, turning to change into the fresh jacket as Clint leaves to put his gear away. Outside, Phil can hear the patter of raindrops slow, ease away, stop completely.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The problem is that Phil survives most thunderstorms and sudden rains up until a certain point. He remembers very clearly the days when it rained or stormed while he was in class at Saint Patrick's, and he doesn't remember being this... incapacitated. Hell, in high school it felt like half of his lacrosse practices were held in the rain, and he never missed a practice or a game because of it.

Phil is a freshman at Penn State when he tries to leave his dorm and it's not even storming outside, but he _can't_. He makes it halfway to the sidewalk when he realizes that he can't _walk_ , he can't _breathe_ , he can barely _see_. He mumbles some lame excuse to his roommate and buries his head under his pillow and eventually the sun comes back out.

For a few years, Phil can pretend that it's not that big a deal. Sure, he's anxious about his future, _that's_ what it is. Vietnam was over before he ever got to school, but the Cold War is still on, and Phil thinks about- about going over there, in the tropics, where it's raining and storming all the damn time, and he actually gives himself the shakes just thinking about it.

Phil finishes with his Bachelor's in Architecture, goes on and gets a Masters in Business when he realizes that he doesn't really want to design houses or bridges. Graduation day comes and he can't walk down the aisle to receive his diploma, because it's fucking raining outside.

A few days later, this guy knocks on the door to Phil's apartment, and Phil's wearing jogging shorts, because it's the eighties and times were tough on _everybody,_ and this guy is wearing a suit and a trenchcoat in the height of summer, and he looks like the realest motherfucker Phil's ever met.

He grins and shows Phil all kinds of papers to sign and says that Phil's resume looks great, but they both know it's a _lie_ , and what the hell, it's not like Phil's got any other plans.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Phil considers not sleeping, considers not climbing into bed right now. His nerves are thrumming, he feels like every tendon could be twanged like Clint's bowstring. But Clint rolls over and looks at him, not saying anything, just letting Phil feel the weight of his gaze. Phil sighs and arranges himself on the lumpy motel mattress next to him.

“Shitty day,” Clint tells him, and Phil shrugs a little, letting the calloused, blunt tips of Clint's fingers trace soothingly up his spine. “You need anything?”

“No,” Phil mutters, because he _doesn't_ need anything, just like he doesn't need Clint to hold him until his body figures out how to breathe like a normal person, just like he doesn't _need_ to cradle Clint in his arms when the nightmares come for the sniper. Phil doesn't need anything but for the weather to clear.


End file.
